


The Librarian's Apprentice

by Bewscuttles



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, College of Winterhold - Freeform, College of Winterhold Questline, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magic, Magic School, Magical Accidents, Magical Artifacts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7094023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bewscuttles/pseuds/Bewscuttles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elasandra has a dream: to join the College of Winterhold and study magic. Unfortunately, she has barely any magicka at all. After cheating the bridge test and subsequently blowing it up, she's become Public Enemy Number One to both the students and Urag gro-Shob, her new master and the Arcaneum's librarian. But she's stubborn, and the Arch-Mage has taken a strange liking to her, and she'll do whatever she can to set things right.</p><p>But things are never what they seem, especially when magic's involved. A Thalmor agent has joined the staff; apprentices have been disappearing; the dragons have returned; a great and terrible magical artifact has been uncovered in the ruins of Saarthal. Yet Elasandra remains optimistic about the future—and maybe even about the past...</p><p>A re-imagining of the College of Winterhold questline. Non-Dragonborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

  
**I.** Introductions

 

* * *

 

It was at sunset, when the stars were visible and the auroras shimmering on the red edge of the horizon, that Elasandra Elisidd finally made her decision. Perhaps, having heard her resolve and meaning to put a stop to it, the Divines had sent a strong snow flurry to meet her on the porch steps of the Frozen Hearth Inn; perhaps karma had come calling for her future dealings, and the temperature had taken a turn below freezing to accommodate it; perhaps life was unfair, and her mood travelled a dark path in acknowledgement, and even her pathetic attempt to balance the odds would never settle even—but after all these foreboding omens, and despite knowing quite well the stupidity of what she was about to do, Elasandra had her eyes set forward, her nose raised high, and her determination pulsing in time to her nervous heartbeat. Whatever happened next, it didn't matter. She was going to enter the College of Winterhold and learn magic, and to Oblivion with everyone who said otherwise.

She was going to cheat that bridge test.

Although she'd never been a confident woman—let alone a potential conwoman-in-the-making—Elasandra squared her shoulders, forced herself to stand tall and dignified, and then took a purposeful step forward. So what if she was terrible at magic? She was an intelligent, dignified lady, stubborn and clever and sly. No magicka? Ha! That didn't matter; it was about quality, not quantity! Who cared if she couldn't even conjure a small fire? Well, yes, Faralda the bridge guard had cared quite a bit, but Elasandra wouldn't let that deter her. She had her own ace in the hole. There was more to being a mage than flashy lights, as a wise Redguard once said, and she would prove it today. All it took was one step at a time, and then she would be the mage everyone thought she could never be. And she took that step, confident and proud—

It was with a yelp and a wet _slap_ that she fell face-first into the snow.

 

* * *

 

Elasandra was ten years old when she decided she loved everything about magic.

It came, she supposed, from living in Morthal. Not that living in such a sleepy little town had much to do with anything—no, it was more the swamp surrounding the town, with its eerie fog, the strange wisps of fire far in the darkness, the rumbles and howls of nocturnal creatures, and the inherent sense of magic oozing from the gnarled trees. Such a strange contrast of the completely ordinary and the inexplicably supernatural had always intrigued her as much as it frightened. It didn't help that the townspeople seemed to share similar thoughts to hers; they often shared stories about the swamp over ales at the inn: how the swamp was steeped in blood magicks, the water congealing with poisons at night, the clacking of rickety bones in the wind, white phantoms lurking the fog for lost souls. It was impossible not to be swept up in the enchantment, and even though her family had settled there only recently, she had become enamored with the magic of the legends.

Her parents, however, were far more pragmatic on the matter: under no circumstance was she allowed near the swamp, nor anywhere close to its border. Though neither held much stock in the legends as the native townspeople—both her Bosmer mother and Imperial father were foreign to Skyrim—they kept her away on principle. That, of course, made her all the more curious. And in the end, that was how Elasandra met the wizard.

Once she turned ten and had decided she'd come into adulthood, she wanted to, and would, prove to all the ignorant townspeople that the swamp was just a swamp, and there wasn't anything to fear. She imagined herself far taller and stronger than she was, and believed she would receive a reward from the Jarl for her cunning plan. Imagine: Elasandra, the reviled and teased half-blood girl, proving the whole town stupid of their assumptions! And maybe, just maybe, she might even catch a glimpse of true magic, not those measly little parlor tricks, but the sort talked about in history books....

With that thought, she waited until both her parents were asleep, slipped into her sturdiest boots, took her father's dagger, and stole into the night. Though there was a moment of hesitation at the tree-line, she shook off the last traces of doubt and began her slow descent into the fog.

If there was one true thing to be said about Wood Elves, it was their natural talent at creeping about. Elasandra had practiced this talent to pieces in her home, carefully keeping her toes pointed and probe-like, her weight distributed evenly across her body, her ears trained for the squeaky floorboards; she'd even taught herself to roll silently, how to bend her limbs until they fit into small crevices, how to quickly adjust to darkness. (When there were no other children besides the Jarl's heir to play with, Elasandra mused, you had to learn to amuse yourself.) Now, when the trees themselves looked like reaching hands, she put all her training to good use, ducking low to the ground, keeping as silent as the ghosts that supposedly roamed.

She kept at this strange weaving pattern for a long while. A part of her wondered, with a growing panic, if the swamp stretched on forever. But when she noticed the same group of deathbells for the sixth time, she realized she'd been prowling around a small lake and had been going in circles. When she looked back to Morthal, she found herself near the edge of the tree-line, a familiar cairn marking the path back to town. Apparently the swamp didn't want her in it. She almost felt indignant, as though the little stacked pile of rocks had offended her personally.

That is, until she felt the magic.

 

* * *

 

Her clothes were completely wet on the front, but thankfully the contents of her pockets and the papers hidden in her gloves were spared. Otherwise she would have bawled her eyes out and sank into another mead-induced stupor.

The walk to the great stone bridge usually took only five minutes from the inn on a good day—she knew this from experience, as she'd made the walk about a dozen times before, though more than half of those were spent hiding in the evergreen bushes and observing the robed figures walk past with envious greed. Due to the sudden flurry, however, the walk took fifteen minutes of stumbling through ankle-length snow and cursing herself for ignoring the ice on the porch steps. By the time she was at the slope that began the bridge, she was huddling into herself and shivering violently. That one curly piece of hair that never seemed to stay back fell from her bun into her eyes, the whole of it wet and frozen. If she looked closely, Elasandra could see a tiny icicle hanging off the end. She glared at it.

Faralda the bridge guard was an Altmer woman, tall and with golden skin, like all her race. Although Elasandra could not see her from the slope, there was no doubt Faralda atop her perch had seen the whole embarrassing episode, from the porch steps to the ridiculous walk over. It was humiliating enough to come back after failing the test twice; it was much, much worse having an audience to her misery. But it would not do, quitting right when she was so close to victory.

Gathering what little dignity she had left, Elasandra slowly trudged up the smoothly-cut slope until she saw a golden head of hair, two yellow eyes, a pointed jawline and long neck, and the beautifully embroidered robes that signified mastery over magic, in that order. In contrast, Elasandra wondered if Faralda saw her in turn as a messy bun of orange hair with that one iced-over bit free, a pair of bloodshot green eyes, a stubby nose, chattering teeth, and then several layers of cheap clothes with a large wet spot on the front. It seemed so, for the next moment she glanced up Faralda's rather severe face grew softer.

"Elasandra," she greeted. The first time they'd met, her voice had been curt and to-the-point; now, after about a dozen run-ins, they at least were on an acquaintance basis. "How are you?"

She smiled as best as she could with her teeth clattering together. "Fine, well enough. And you?"

"As bored as ever, I suppose." She swept her hand across the distance. "No new apprentices, but a few travelling scholars bent on the pursuit of knowledge. All in all, very dull work for a guard."

Elasandra thought of Falion for a small moment before shaking her head clear.

"But I'm sure you're not here to listen to my whinging," Faralda continued, and that sympathetic look was back in her eyes. Elasandra kept her face blank. "You're here for the test, I presume."

"Yes," she said simply. The look in Faralda's eyes was too much, and she had to look away. The sun was almost completely set by now, despite it being only the early afternoon. "I want to have another go."

"But of course." There was a sigil on the ground Faralda took a step away from, an eye on top of a pentagram engraved into the stone. It would be the place where Elasandra was to aim her spell. If she produced it correctly, she would be accepted into the College. If not—well, they had done this twice already. This time would be different.

"If you would please, cast a Firebolt at the floor."

Elasandra breathed in deeply. This would be it. Her last chance. Even through her many layers, the cold penetrated and cooled her nervous sweat into thin sheets of ice. Carefully lifting both her hands until they were pointed at the eye, she bit her bottom lip, closed her eyes, and sent an inward prayer to Y'ffre.

Very, very gently, she coaxed her magicka to the surface, pushing it along the veins of her arms until it reached her wrists. She held it there, trembling after draining herself so completely, and cautiously settled it into the palms of her hands, keeping it below the skin. The paper hidden in her gloves had fire runes written on them, and they had taken several days to create. She had such a small reserve of magicka that even imbuing power into palm-sized runes quickly tired her. The papers, when they came into contact with her magicka, would explode outwardly—she had tested the runes herself before—and the resulting blast would look similar, if not entirely as precise, as a Firebolt. Even Faralda wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

On the cusp of triumph, Elasandra looked to Faralda and grinned. Faralda returned it with a hesitant smile, perhaps wondering why she seemed so pleased with herself; and she asked, with a question in her voice, "Can you perform the spell?"

"Yes!" Elasandra laughed, feeling giddy. "Oh, yes, yes I can!"

She let the magicka go.

The resulting explosion was heard for miles.

 

* * *

 

She'd never truly known what magic felt like until that moment, lost in the swamps of Morthal. It was like being submerged in a tub of warm water, but without the accompanying wetness or chill feeling after rising from the bath. There was an underlying twinge, something close to a static nip, that caused the hairs on her arms to stand. Laughter bubbled in her throat, and she barely managed to tamp it down before it exploded out her mouth. Her toes and fingers twitched erratically in time with her tendons—and yet her heart was calm, as was her breath. It was unnerving, for her body to conduct two separate emotions at once.

Without thinking she crept forward, away from the path, following the invisible wave towards its source. Her toes kept shaking wildly as she felt the land shift upward. A stone walkway appeared at the balls of her feet, and as she shadowed the path, she saw a break in the fog. The air grew heavier, more filling, and the submerged feeling increased tenfold. The stone on the ground was man-made, cut to fit a circular pattern, and several stone pillars jutted out, taller than a full-grown man. In the center of the circle stood a cloaked figure, its back to her. One of its arms was extended, the other at its side, and Elasandra caught a glimpse of a dark finger pointed down at the spiral in the circle's middle.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a quickness that made her jump, a ball of blue light flared out the figure's finger—the wave of magic intensified drastically—and landed atop the spiral. As she watched, her mouth agape, the light gently flew up from where it had struck, until it had reached a point above the figure's head. And as though waiting for that signal, a shockwave of blinding white enveloped the entirety of the circle.

She shut her eyes tight, but it was too late; she could see the whiteness even against her eyelids. Scrambling backward, she scrubbed at her face and whimpered. A male voice cried out in  
shock, and then a hand clamped around her upper arm. She bucked in his hold and threw her body away, shouting unintelligibly, but soon another hand joined its fellow and held her still.

"Would you be quiet?" the voice snapped.

"No!" she screamed. She craned her neck and bit his hand. With a grim satisfaction, she noted the taste of blood. The hand recoiled.

He swore. "Stop that! I am not going to hurt you, you little daedra!"

She didn't listen. Instead, she groped for the dagger in her pocket and swore with the few words she'd learned from the millers.

"Stand still and listen—"

She unsheathed the dagger and pointed it at his chest. He tried to wrench it free, but she was both quicker and smaller; she ducked beneath his hands and ran towards the swamp, intent on Morthal—

Just as the thought came, she was knocked to the ground by something incredibly heavy. All the air left her lungs, and she desperately pulled in great puffs of air. Whatever was on top of her had secured every limb, every finger and toe, and as she gasped for breath, she realized even her tongue felt like it was wrestled to the bottom of her jaw. It was as though she were—

"Paralysis spell," sighed the man. She heard the sound of soft footsteps on stone, and felt a hand on her middle that carefully turned her about until she was face-to-face with the kneeling man. His skin was a dark brown and seemed to blend in with the shadows cast by the blue ball of light. But his eyes, beneath his hood, were clear, from the bloodshot whites of his eyes, to the dark brown irises. She relaxed by a fraction in his hold.

"It should wear off in a few minutes," he said. He set her down on her back and retrieved her fallen dagger. "A real scamp, aren't you," he muttered dryly, placing it beside her hand. And quietly, he sat by her side until the spell wore off, his arms crossed at the chest, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Her mouth was the first to unfreeze. "Who are you?" she blurted out.

He didn't answer her immediately, instead perusing the circle of stones. When he was done with this, he turned to her and scowled.

"That's a question I should be asking first," he said. He scanned her face and she shrank under his stare. "I know for a fact no Bosmer live in Morthal."

"My ma and da moved here years ago," she said accusingly. It was hard to look intimidating while on your back. "How would you know?"

"My sister lives there. I've seen Morthal longer than you've been alive." His eyes narrowed at her face. "And I've yet to meet anyone there with green eyes."

"Your sister?" She racked her brain and in a flash remembered. "The innkeeper!"

"Jonna, yes," said the man simply. "And your name would be?"

She looked away from his face, wondering if she should even tell him. Already she could feel her whole body twitch in anticipation. Her father had always said never to trust strangers, especially those that hid their faces; but then again, she had come to the swamp searching for proof of magic, for some kind of explanation, and here it was, sitting next to her in quiet conversation. And she desperately needed to know more of those spells he used. In the space of a heart beat, she made her decision.

"Elasandra," she mumbled.

"Hm?" He raised his eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"My name's Elasandra," she said.

"A lyrical Imperial name." He nodded his head, as though he'd reached his own decision. "I am Falion, travelling mage and wandering scholar." He slowly stood up, brushing the ends of his robes free from dirt. He offered her a hand, and she hesitantly took it.

It was the beginning of a tumultuous friendship.

 

* * *

 

Elasandra didn't believe her situation could get any worse.

After blowing up a bridge, scorching her hands, setting Faralda aflame, being threatened with life-long imprisonment by the Jarl's guards, and then forced to march through a crowd of onlookers towards the office of the Arch-Mage, there really wasn't much of her left to humiliate — what with her dignity already in shambles, her integrity left back weeks ago, and her eyebrows singed off at the ends. (Of course, that one piece of hair that never stayed in place was resilient as ever, merely a blackened tip to show for wear.) Faralda had even bound her in magical cuffs and wouldn't leave her side, as though Elasandra were going to run if left by herself. Not that the thought hadn't crossed her mind—for it certainly had, multiple times—but she had accepted the consequences for her actions weeks ago and wouldn't dare flee now. This lack of faith by the one person who had treated her decently in a long time was perhaps the worst sting. And so she sat within the Arch-Mage's office with her head slumped, resolutely refusing to meet the eyes of both Faralda and Colette Marence, the Breton woman healing her hands.

"My," said Colette in a snippy tone, "burns are so very tricky, are they not, Faralda? The skin blisters and puckers just so. Why, if Restoration were not such a _versatile_ and _flexible_ school of magic, I believe we would have another fatality on our hands. Do you not think so, girl?"

Then again, Elasandra's life was evidence to the fact that, no matter how horrid the current situation was, it was merely a prelude to something worse. Colette Marence was as unhinged as they came, and yet she was the Master of Restoration here at the College. Her burned hands were simply too much of a task for a lesser mage; no one else could not — or would not — recover them.

"I said," snapped Colette, "do you not think so, you silly little fool?"

"Yes," said Elasandra miserably.

"Now," she continued, pleased, "Faralda, dear, I've heard my share of disparaging comments about my specialization — and look, please, if you will, suddenly how my talents are in such high demand! Beyond even the Arch-Mage's! And all it took," she added, clucking her tongue at Elasandra, "was this buffoon to blow up a bridge. And of course its guardian. Does that not say quite a bit about the discrimination I endure?"

Faralda did not answer. She stood with her arms crossed and her eyes towards the entrance of the Arch-Mage's quarters, as the man in question had yet to show. Her eyes would occasionally flicker to Elasandra, but aside from that and a well-placed hum of agreement for Colette's benefit, she seemed above conversation. Her smoldered robes and the perfume of smoke did well to dissuade Colette — but all that did was cajole her into badgering Elasandra instead.

"Well?" Colette asked in an impatient tone. Her hands grasped Elasandra's in the familiarly tight grip of a madwoman.

"Yes, it does," Elasandra muttered. If it weren't for her hands, she would've pulled her hood lower and hid within its depths.

"Exactly. All the whispers and gossip, they cannot contend with the authority I wield within a crisis! And yet —  _and yet!_ — I'm to feel wretched under the scrutiny of colleagues and students alike! I ask you, mountebank fool, is this not a travesty to College tradition?"

"Yes," she mumbled. She winced when the magic hit a tender nerve. Despite being the School focused on healing and light, Restoration seemed more the complete opposite in practice. Elasandra felt every bit of skin as it knit together, every nerve being tapped and fondled, every jarring brush of magicka against the dead, blackened skin. Even as the charcoal husk fell off her hands, she sensed the dermis jutting out against frayed joints and tendons; it was unapologetically painful and abrupt. And this was the delicate work of a master! She feared the skills of an amateur if this was the peak.

"Honestly, it appears the more I call for some form of respect, the more I encounter a pushback! A pushback against me!" Colette swore rather nastily under her breath. "Tell me, Bosmer, is it not true that Restoration is a perfectly valid School of magic?"

Just as Elasandra let out her murmured agreement, another voice said loudly, "Ah, Colette, I see you've been tending our guest. I and the College thank you for lending your talents on such short notice."

Faralda stood taller, if that were possible, and said, "Good afternoon, Arch-Mage."

Colette merely glanced over Elasandra's shoulder and scowled. "It is not my place to question direct orders, dear Savos. But I accept your apology," she added with a sniff.

"Good, good. If you're almost finished..." The man's voice trailed off.

Though Elasandra's skin was still over-pink and sensitive, the tingling of healing magic cut off abruptly. Colette stood and bowed her head to the Arch-Mage, and then left without another word. Deciding a quick peek couldn't ruin her chances, Elasandra glanced over her shoulder—and then hastily turned away.

She had heard that the Arch-Mage was a Dunmer man, but she hadn't been prepared for the sharp red eyes, the ash-grey skin, nor the severe sharpness of his features. Although the knotted beard and strange shawl of his robes softened his face, it was clear that the man himself reeked of magicka, of raw power, and there was no doubt in her mind the anger she saw in the cut of his grimace. He wasn't a man to mess with, she knew, and she'd managed to anger him within seconds of meeting him.

"Faralda, please, if you would repeat today's events," said the Arch-Mage. His stride was even and long, and very self-assured. She felt his eyes on the back of her smoky head his entire course. "I've been told several outrageous stories this past half-hour. I'm worried and amused by all tellings, though what I've seen with my eyes is rather ghastly."

At this, Elasandra peeked beneath her eyelashes. The Arch-Mage stood just to the side of his hard oak desk, his attention riveted on Faralda's tense figure. Although his posture was relaxed and his voice calm, his hands were clenched so tightly she could see the stark paleness of his tendons. She forced herself to stay very, very still; the thought struck her that if she moved by even a breath, he would swoop down on her like a bird of prey on a mouse.

But as fate would have it, he seemed to have heard her thoughts and turned her way.

The Arch-Mage suddenly turned stone-still, as though he were in shock, the moment his eyes landed on Elasandra's face, and Faralda's words on the sorry event were heeded by an unnaturally stiff audience. It was uncanny, the way he scoured her appearance with his fervent stare—it was as though Elasandra were an important past acquaintance that he'd nearly forgot, but then remembered with harsh clarity. He mouthed her name, carefully rolling silent syllables over tongue and palate, and the way he said it made it clear that he'd known before Faralda introduced her.

Just as quickly as the eeriness came, it went as fast as water down a hole; the Arch-Mage's face shuttered until nothing remained of the moment but a neutral, vaguely authoritative expression, and the memory in Elasandra's wide eyes.

"—and now, beyond what I've seen and experienced, and no doubt what our suspect here knows, I have no more idea than you, Arch-Mage," finished Faralda, bowing her head. It took Elasandra a moment to remember what she'd been speaking of. When she looked back towards the Arch-Mage, he had ignored her in favor of eyeing Faralda with a speculative gleam in his eye.

"I see," he said, though how he had retained all of this while staring Elasandra down, she had no clue. He put one hand behind his back and another to stroke his beard. For a moment he looked off into the air, as though thinking hard on the matter — but then she caught a small smile hidden behind his hand and she knew then that he _knew_. She wondered again if they'd met before, though she knew they most certainly hadn't; she was quite sure she would've remembered otherwise.

"Faralda," he finally said, "I will ask you this absurd question: Did you see any runes on the floor?"

In her chair, Elasandra tensed. Her hands twitched in remembrance.

"I highly doubt I would have, Savos. Our guest here..." She glanced at Elasandra and then shook her head. "She barely has the capacity for a simple Flame spell, let alone something as costly as that. And I would've spotted one, don't you think?" she asked dryly. She waved a hand down the length of her body. "Master of Destruction, yes?"

He smiled patiently. "I'm not doubting your ability. But let me rephrase: Were there any papers lying about?"

She scoffed. "Scrolls? I've been around for quite some time, and I can say that if there's one thing I'll know well into my thousands, it's the difference between a scroll and a cast spell. And this was not a scroll."

"And yet you say magic of that caliber was not possible for our guest."

Faralda sighed. "I'm not an apprentice, Savos, to teach a lesson. So if you would kindly stop beating around the bush, please, simply tell me what I'm missing."

"Why," said the Arch-Mage, turning to Elasandra with a strangely chipper strut to his step, "our guest here has done something rather remarkable today."

"Really," said Faralda flatly. Her eyebrows rose in disbelief.

"Quite." He flourished a hand at Elasandra. "Our young friend here has single-handedly transliterated one of the most esoteric subjects, and of the whole Arcana, into practical spell-making."

"What?" Both Faralda and Elasandra looked at him with incredulity.

"I'm speaking of her ability to put runes on paper."

Faralda swung around to openly stare at Elasandra. "Her what now?"

Elasandra looked between the two warily, her posture tense. While Faralda's confusion was easy to spot, the Arch-Mage's turn-around from anger to that strange satisfaction was an unknown with which she didn't know how to respond. But before she could clear up any misunderstandings—what did that mean, a trans-what doing esoteric somethings for some person or another? That certainly didn't sound like _her_ —the Arch-Mage clapped his hands together and said, "Urag has been in need of an apprentice in recent years. Wouldn't you agree, Faralda?"

Whoever this Urag was, apparently that sentence was not an accurate assessment. Faralda's gold skin went a shade paler at his words, and she blurted out, "No, for Auri-El's sake, Savos—what are you even _thinking?"_

"And he's said he'll accept anyone I approve of," he continued on, oblivious to Faralda's spluttering, "though I doubt he actually thought I would find anyone at all. But he is getting on in years. A young apprentice may be good for him."

"Are you out of your Daedra-stricken mind?"

"I suppose that settles that." He smiled down at Elasandra and held out a hand for her to take. It was wrinkled and blemished, yet the pulses of magicka wafting off it spoke of hidden strength. "You wish so much to be part of the College, hm? My dear, I believe we'll have you matriculated by the end of the day. I'll even forgive you the large debt you owe us in favor of unpaid labor and an apprenticeship."

Elasandra blinked stupidly at him. Debt? Apprenticeship? The whole situation came down in a swirl of words and colors and mixed emotions. Hadn't she envisioned in her fantasies the greatest, wisest wizard of them all complimenting her talents and requesting her personally to join the College? And yet, there was a bittersweet note to her victory, more bitter than sweet in the end, that permeated the offer. She was quite sure that the Arch-Mage had intended to punish her beyond reproach when he'd entered the room—and then he'd gotten a good look at her, and suddenly things were wonderful, dreams granted on a golden platter? She didn't know what to think. She was missing a vital piece of information and the Arch-Mage seemed to be exploiting that.

"And," said the Arch-Mage, cutting through her suspicions, "we'll most certainly give you accommodations. Your current dress seems a little...hm. I'm sure Mirabelle has an extra set of enchanted robes laying about."

Without a second thought—though something dark in the back of her head was whispering, _He knows you too well_ —she grasped his hand with both of hers and beamed up at him.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! I would love to join your College! Thank you so very, very much!"

 

* * *

 

One look at Mirabelle Ervine, and Elasandra felt her carefree happiness diminish into a cautious smile. One conversation in, and she felt rather small and childish in her new (second-hand) boots, despite Mirabelle being the same height. One misplaced slip on the icy College grounds and a mutual tumble into a pile of snow, and she knew the woman absolutely _despised_ her, and nothing would ever change it.

"You are," said Mirabelle in her own words, "a disgrace to our tradition. A blow to our pride, a show for nepotism, a puerile state of arrogance that defies natural law." A finger thrust itself at Elasandra's chest. It tingled in warning. "For whatever reason Savos saw fit to forgive your destruction and deception, know that I see you for the cheating fool you are. One toe out of line, and you will find yourself locked up in the Chill for longer than even an elven lifespan can contain."

And with that pronouncement, she turned around and continued the tour of the grounds as though she'd said nothing at all. It took a long moment before Elasandra remembered her place, and all the while several onlookers dressed in College robes studied their altercation with a mix of bewilderment and pleasure. Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't let the best day of her life be ruined. No matter what anyone said of her position, or what she had done to earn it, she knew the truth.

The first stop of the tour, as Mirabelle said in her most neutral, professional tone, was the Hall of Attainment. The door for it was located on the right side of the gates, the stone engraved with the familiar eye sigil that seemed to be everywhere on the grounds. Once inside, Mirabelle led her around the circular ring of rooms, up the staircase, and spoke of the apprentices and junior collegiates and the projects they produced. Apparently there were ward spells on nearly every spellable surface, including the tables meant for eating and the few latrines and wash stables. It was an accommodation made for every possible incident that could arise from the inexperienced members of the College. So far, nothing too disastrous had occurred, beyond the normal cuts and scrapes and missing limbs.

The dorms themselves were cut into the stone, and most contained a twin-sized bed, a desk, chairs, and a few cabinets for storage. Most of the occupied rooms had their doors closed; only one was open, and it was clearly not made for occupation: there was hay strewn around the floor, and bucket-loads of the stuff were bursting out the few wooden crates that lay open. It was a storage room for the more fragile equipment, Mirabelle said, voice even, though underneath her breath she cursed layabout apprentices and their bad habits. Elasandra didn't know whether to acknowledge she heard or not and instead looked up at the undercroft-like ceiling. The College's architecture was unlike anything she'd ever seen. It was more akin to what she pictured of a catacombs, similar to what she remembered from the trip to Whiterun, rather than a hall dedicated to serious academic pursuit. It was both fantastic and eerie.

They soon came to the end of that part of the tour. Mirabelle stood in the space underneath the staircase, staring at her rather crossly. Fidgeting under her gaze, Elasandra kept quiet. They both knew the question that was on the tip of her tongue: If she was now an apprentice, where would she stay? But the words never left her mouth. There was a pause.

"And here," said Mirabelle, touching a hand to the stone wall, "is your rooms." As she removed her hand, the stone brick withdrew a little into the wall, and an opening appeared. A breeze rushed past and shook their hair. Mirabelle nodded her head to the the opening, and Elasandra peered inside.

She cringed at what she saw and looked back longingly at the storage room. Even though it was covered in boxes and hay, it looked much warmer and brighter compared to her little hole in the wall.

For indeed, it really was a little hole. It was about as tall as a full-grown man, but had only enough room to fit four starved children. As it was cut from stone and further away from the light of the hall, it was dark and dank and smelled rather musty. Thankfully, nothing had grown in there, not even bits of cobweb—anything that would have thrived in the dark seemed to have been run off by the unsettling silence and chill. If it were bigger, Elasandra might've said it was perfect for a dungeon; but with the space presented, it worked much better as a forgotten broom closet, or cold storage for small food stuffs. And maybe it once had been, though any evidence of its past was long gone, and it was all the more lonely for it.

"Oh," said Elasandra after a pause. She didn't look behind her, for Mirabelle's grimly pleased voice had said enough. "Ah. There's, er, no bed."

"Unfortunately," she replied, and she seemed to relish the word, "there's no room for a traditional frame. There is a cot presently under requisition, so you'll have something to rest on."

Elasandra swallowed back a lump. Well, she told herself, she had her own room. Back in Morthal, she'd had to share a one-room cabin with her father. Then again, she would've preferred having a kitchen in the same area; at least then she'd have a fire to keep her warm.

They continued on after that, Mirabelle explaining the history of the College. She went on about the Hall of Countenance, which was the teachers' counterpart to the students' hall; the Hall of the Elements, an empty lecture hall meant for lessons and practice; and—in a voice that said, _Don't even think about it_ —the Midden, an underground portion of the College that had sunk deep into the mountainside after the Great Collapse. It was all terribly interesting, even in the monotonous tone Mirabelle used, and Elasandra had to constantly make sure she was paying attention, for her daydreams ran much quicker than her feet.

At last, once they stood at the foyer of the Hall of Elements, Mirabelle turned to her and asked, "Do you have any questions?" The expression on her face dared Elasandra to ask something stupid.

It was with unfortunate realization that she asked hesitantly, "Er, the Arch-Mage said I was to—well, I have an apprenticeship under someone named Urag, I think. And I don't really recall meeting anyone with that name yet."

Mirabelle studied her, eyes roaming up and down. What she found didn't seem to please her any more than it did before.

"Urag," she said, her blue eyes narrowed, "is one of our oldest staff members. He is, I'm sure you've guessed, an Orc. The oldest Orc in the province, actually, perhaps the oldest in all Tamriel. Of course, that's merely speculation—however, I do have a point in mentioning this." She crossed her arms. "He is set in his ways. He has been set in his ways since I met him twenty years ago, since Savos met him forty years ago, since Faralda met him sixty years ago. The only other apprentice he had came and left within a matter of weeks, and since then he's never had another, and has never cared to. Why Savos felt the need to force another upon him at this time is anyone's guess, though I certainly have my own and they don't favor your future—but I digress.

"When you become the apprentice to Urag gro-Shub," she continued, "you will learn well the meaning of discipline. He will do everything in his power to drive you off and keep you from returning, for again, he is set in his ways and will not appreciate an upstart apprentice undercutting his business. He will see you not as a pupil, but as an enemy, and he will treat you as such. So," she finished, staring Elasandra directly in the eye, "if you think yourself clever or believe your future is easiest under an aging Orc, please, for your sake, guess again."

Elasandra swallowed nervously and then nodded. "I understand."

"No," said Mirabelle, shaking her head, "I don't believe you do. Not yet. Come," she said, turning towards a new staircase. "I suppose we'd best let this over with."

They moved up the winding staircase into another foyer, similar to the Arch-Mage's receiving area in his quarters, and came to stand at the entrance to what was perhaps the most intimidating sight Elasandra had ever seen.

It was ridiculous, she thought wildly, for there to be so many books in one place. The room was impossibly, fantastically large compared to its counterpart on the lower floor, most likely spelled into the size of a village; Elasandra fancied that the whole of Morthal's lake could comfortably fit within. The bookshelves were far too tall, made of a burnt wood as tan as her skin, and extended into the shadowed recesses of a vaulted ceiling. There were no windows; overhead was a glittering ball of light, its metal container thrumming with the steady pulse of magic. An array of sturdy desks and tables were spread out among the mosaic-floored center of the room—as they walked over it, Elasandra met her wide-eyed reflection in the varnish—and several figures in College robes huddled over their piles and piles of thick texts. Despite herself, Elasandra jerked her head about, revelling in the smell of vellum and parchment, spying little details here and there: a Nordic stone wall with a window layered in books—there, was that candlelight floating in midair?—the circular pattern of shelves cut a labyrinthine path that inevitably led towards the mid-point of the whole library—she peeked in-between books and caught a Bosmer man whispering rather heatedly to an Altmer, gesticulating with a staff—was it her, or were there whispers following her back?

"If you would please show some restraint," said Mirabelle, never pausing in her stride, though she gave Elasandra a pointed glance.

She flushed and hastily shook her head to clear it. So deep in her wonderings was she, she hadn't noticed herself so rudely tossing her head. She pulled up her slipping hood and sunk deeper into it, muttering an apology.

Soon enough, the thicket of shelves trickled down until there was nothing but a desk set in a clearing with an elderly Orc sitting behind it. The desk and the Orc shared many traits: they were both sturdy and of broad stock, covered in aged lines and wrinkles, their skin mottled with yellow speckles. No doubt they both had a tendency to be covered in books; the amount of papers and texts across the desk made a sort of fort surrounding the man. But the three key differences were harder to ignore than the similarities: one, the desk seemed capable of standing on its own; two, the Orc's protruding yellow tusks, chipped on the ends, were much sharper than anything the desk contained; and three, the Orc had a pair of eyes that were a glazed black, from sclera to iris to pupil, darker than any of the inkwells lining the sides. His eyes were fixated on a nibbed pen—Elasandra had to look twice, and her eyes bulged—that was moving across a piece of parchment by itself.

"Who goes there?" the Orc barked. His head snapped up from his paperwork and turned towards them. His eyes were off a bit to Mirabelle's right, a little above her head. His nostrils flared, as if tasting the air, and he said in a quieter voice, "Mirabelle."

Oh, Elasandra realized with a jolt—he was blind. A blind librarian. Now she'd seen everything.

"Good day, Urag," Mirabelle said politely. "I hope things here have been pleasant so far."

The Orc snorted, and Elasandra had a feeling he did that often. "As if these fools could shut up for a day." Shaking his head, he sniffed again. "And who's your little guest? Smells like a hearth."

Elasandra winced and discreetly smelled herself. Although her new clothes were free of ash, there was a tinge of smokiness around her person. She rather hoped he could only smell the physical; if he were like an animal and could smell emotions, no doubt he would throw her out for the fear wafting off her like a wildfire.

Mirabelle sighed deeply. For a small moment, Elasandra saw her shoulders sag. "I believe you'll need to put your work aside."

"What?" He cocked his head. The pen that had been writing such a pretty script stopped in its tracks, its invisible hand stayed by the frown on his face. "Why would I do that? I've got to rearrange the entire agricultural section within a week and two books to translate. There's no time for petty things." With that, he flicked his finger and the pen started up again.

"I insist," said Mirabelle. Her eyes took on a firm quality, as did her voice. "You are not going to like the news I've brought."

His frown deepened, but the pen didn't stop this time. "You can tell me as I work."

Mirabelle matched his growing frown. "And the news I'm to deliver requires your mind at ease."

"Really now," he said dryly. "Mirabelle, you act as though I'm a child before his first hunt. Whatever you have to say, I'll take it in stride." He sniffed again, his unfocused eyes straying to Elasandra's direction. "What, is it this smoke alarm? Did she burn something?"

There was a pause. Elasandra swallowed.

He tensed in his seat, his frown changing to a scowl, his bent spine straightening into a stiff point. "Did she burn one of my books? Is that it?"

This time Mirabelle snorted. "If only it were that simple."

"Then what? Did she burn another student?"

"No, unfortunately." Her lips turned up into a mirthless smile. "It was Faralda. She's rather perturbed by the whole situation."

"Faralda? Our Faralda?" His whole body swivelled to face Elasandra. "This thing managed to burn _her?_ "

"Indeed. I was rather surprised myself." She sighed again. "But I'm afraid that's not why I'm here. I suppose I'll just begin introductions." Mirabelle turned Elasandra's way and gave her a deep, searching look that was not completely lost to Urag; his unruly white eyebrows rose on his head. "This is our newest apprentice."

Elasandra fumbled with the words in her head before she blurted out, "I'm, uh, Elasandra, of Morthal. I'm—" She stopped herself and began again. "I've always wanted to be part of the College—"

"And this," Mirabelle interrupted smoothly, "is Urag gro-Shub, keeper of the College's Arcaneum and head librarian."

For a moment, the wheels in Urag's head visibly turned behind his black eyes. Then he said, in an impatient voice, "And why should I care about an apprentice?"

Mirabelle flinched, though it was a minute thing. "I'm afraid," she began delicately, "that she's not just any apprentice. Savos has given very specific orders, and they are—and in his own words—to be _effective immediately_ and _without argument_." The words were repeated with obvious distaste. "He's put his foot down on this matter and apparently will not be lenient about it."

"Just say it!" he snapped. There was a hint of weariness in his tone, as if he were well-acquainted with what sorts of orders the Arch-Mage gave. He rubbed his balding head and said in a softer voice, "Just get it over with."

Elasandra took several steps away from them.

"She's your new apprentice," said Mirabelle quickly. "And she will be helping you with all of your duties and will learn the trade under your—"

There was another explosion, but this time, thankfully, it hadn't been Elasandra's fault. Unfortunately, the resulting aftershock was quite a bit worse that the first's.

 

* * *

 

While the scars on Elasandra's hands were beginning to fade, the blows to her ego were not even close to soothed. She paused in her sorting and snuck a glance over her shoulder at Urag—her new master, she corrected herself—who was unabashedly glaring back at her. It was uncanny, the way his unseeing eyes kept catching her square in the face, as if pure loathing were a panacea to his ills. (Despite the arthritis, he was quite active in following her around the whole of the library, barking orders at her and threatening harm should she foolishly try to steal his books. Even the bald crown of his head had sprouted new gray strands in honor of her appointment.) She shuddered under his attention, and he seemed to know it; he smiled a horrible smile that made his tusks protrude even more.

"I will end you," Urag had promised her that fateful day. A week later and she believed that it was certainly his intention. Every day she awoke an hour before dawn and every night she was asleep after midnight, collapsed on her miserable little cot in her miserable little room. Despite her size and the sheer audacity of such requests, she was atop ladder after ladder, using a pipe cleaner to dust the ceiling, shoving encyclopediae and beefy tomes onto the high shelves, dragging hulking wood desks to opposite ends of the Arcaneum—and this was merely the morning preparations!

Thankfully, the afternoons were a bit more forgiving in the physical regard, though it was made up in intellectual weariness. Urag would place her at a desk with several feet of stacked books and she would rearrange them by subject, language, alphabetical order, number on file, magical skill required, illegality of subject based on province, whether it had achieved sentience, relative usefulness of its information in times of crisis, whether anyone would bother to read it, the amount of bloodstains on its pages—such an abundant list of nonsensical things she'd had to triple-check if they were all necessary. Of course they were, Urag had yelled at her, and if she wasn't done by sunset, she would be denied supper.

She hadn't had supper for quite a while.

The evenings found her repairing wobbly desk legs, buffing scorch marks from the furniture, waxing eye sigils whose pupils seemed to follow her movements, even scrubbing various acids and poisons off the floors when an alchemical book vomited up its contents. Elasandra often used these periods as times of reflection, and no doubt Urag had planned it that way, for she would wonder why, exactly, she continued to stay at the College when it was clear near everyone she met either disliked or distrusted her. (More than once she'd given into tears at this point, though she scrubbed them away and reminded herself of her considerable debt.)

It was at night that Urag would concede to fatigue and settle in at his desk, quill scratching agitatedly at stacks of parchment. He would bark threats at lingering students, even summoning an atronach to make his point one memorable evening, and slip Elasandra some scrolls for her to patrol the outer rings of the library, slowly but surely sending away those too deep into their research to realize the lateness of the hour. Patrolling came with it a number of concerns: there were wizards of all kinds who detested being put out as they studied; there were lovebirds who were much too infatuated to listen to her embarrassed cries for privacy; there were those who made the dark recesses of the library a storefront for their shady dealings. It was the foolhardiness that only the darkness brings that had all sorts hiding behind the shelves, and Urag wanted them out by the time he was done with his deskwork. It still surprised her how many spark scrolls she used in a night.

The nastiest thing about mages, she'd learned almost immediately on her patrols, was that they were arrogant to a fault. What kind of arrogance they displayed depended on the person, but she'd never met anyone of magical bent who wasn't disdainful of her lack of magicka, or found her hand-me-down robes unrefined, even undeserved, or saw her reliance on scrolls and her own two hands as boorish, a product of hereditary stupidity. From her first eventful day everyone on College grounds could identify her by sight alone—she begrudgingly admitted her appearance was rather unconventional, that she'd never met anyone outside of the Khajiit who had both orange hair and green eyes—and knew about her shameful attempt at cheating with runes. Quite a few people had accosted her about the bridge, many questioning her moral fiber, her ruthlessness; there were exclamations about her honor, chastisements and loud criticisms, and even one Breton man had stayed for an hour in the Arcaneum glaring at the back of her head as she categorized Urag's piles of books. The worst came from the shadier mages who thought, as one Dunmer woman put it, her work was simply extraordinary, very impressive, how did she manage such power with so little skill? It was only due to her hidden rooms and Urag's temperament that she wasn't exposed to more than sharp whispers and eyes on her back.

It was exhausting.

But in the end, when she was dismissed with a wave by Urag near midnight, and had snuck away to her quarters after a long, exhausting day, she would lay on her miserable little cot, in her miserable little room, within her miserable little hole in the wall, and she would grin a wide, stretching grin, her stomach fuzzy and her eyelids heavy, thanking whatever gods, Man or Mer, for her place there in the College. The bruises and the tears were worth it, in her opinion, and so was the shame and the guilt and the accusations and the stares. Her mother had long ago taught her the allure of the chase, the grandness of the hunt, and she'd never forgotten her lessons. Anything worth having came with pain, was it not true? It was said that love was but a sweet mess, a release of all sense; and what was magic but a nonsensical kind of love?

 


	2. A Consultation

**II.** A Consultation

 

* * *

 

"Come now," said Enthir in a pleading whisper, "must I beg? Are we not both of the same kin? Should not the last two Bosmer on this campus join together in solidarity?"

In the month that she'd known him, Elasandra could say quite confidently that Enthir was a bigger skeever than all the rats in the storage rooms combined. The man had decided two weeks within her apprenticeship that, as the only two Wood Elves around, they were destined to be the best of friends. To Enthir that meant being his partner in crime—or rather, his scapegoat when his schemes fell through. It took two reprimands on Mirabelle Ervine's part for Elasandra to realize what scum he was, and the female College students still considered her a terrible pervert. He was the worst sort of person, and she had vowed never to speak with him again, no matter how lonely she was, no matter how friendly his words, no matter how attractive a friend Urag seemed to look as time went on.

"I suppose," she murmured, feeling rather touched despite herself.

Then again, Elasandra had never been good at keeping promises.

Enthir smiled one of those slow, warm smiles that made him seem young and boyish. "Do you remember the time when we snuck into the Hall of Attainment and took every last one of the ladies'—"

"Yes, yes," she hissed, her face turning red. She sunk deeper into her hood and hoped Urag was more interested in deciphering an old scroll than what his barely-tolerated apprentice was up to. Although she'd moved behind several bookcases and was ostensibly placing books on the shelves, she couldn't shake the feeling that Urag could see through it all. He had a way of doing that.

"Imagine the fun we could have with these idiots! They'll fall on each other like starving vultures, my friend, it'll be a spectacle to watch." Enthir leaned back onto the bookcase, his short figure the picture of relaxed confidence. "And no doubt they're trying for something horrific. You do know what sort of people they are? It would be a good thing in the long run."

She had to admit, Enthir did have a point. Orthorn and the gang he ran with were a nasty lot, the kind of mages who liked to start fights just to blast fireballs at their fellow students. More than once she'd heard Urag complain under his breath, as he was wont to do, about how they never returned the darker spellbooks on time, and never without blood on the more grisly pages. But that didn't quite justify spying on their group get-togethers, nor stealing their research notes, as Enthir wished to try. And as it stood, Orthorn's group were the kind who disdained her the most, who had muttered insults when she was close, and near all of them were snooty Altmer who disliked other races simply on principle. Two small Bosmer, one who couldn't cast spells, the other who depended on Illusion magic and trickery, had nothing on fifteen High Elves. She told him as much.

"And you've never been so—so altrustic," she said, frowning at him. "There's something you're hiding from me, isn't there?"

His smile grew slightly smaller. "They aren't good people, Ella. We would all benefit from their leaving. They're troublemakers, every last one of them, and it would make the College safer. Were you not hounded by them for weeks?"

She turned back to the shelf and stared blankly at the books. "That's true," she admitted.

"And they hold themselves higher than the teachers. You've been too busy here, but they are positively _aggravating_  to listen to. Even Tolfdir can barely keep his temper in check."

Elasandra kept quiet on that score. More than once she had snuck away whenever Urag took an impromptu nap at his desk and watched the magic lessons in the Hall of the Elements. She loved Tolfdir's lessons most of all; despite his Nordic heritage and his absentmindedness, he had a childlike curiosity so very similar to her own. One lesson stood out in particular, one with the snooty Altmer apprentices, that involved learning wards. The Altmer had argued for more exciting spells, their voices drowning out Tolfdir's quaking tenor, and they'd harassed him for a good ten minutes before Toldfir had conceded and taught them some nasty-looking ice magic. And, of course, once they started shooting spells at each other, one of their number was struck by an ice spike in the leg. There had been a lot of blood. She'd never seen Tolfdir so furious.

"Look," he said, drawing her attention. "I'm not saying that you should steal their work. Just do that little prowling thing you do and find out what they're plotting. And if they just so happen to leave anything incriminating behind," he added, sliding a hand onto her shoulder, "why don't you consider slipping some of it my way, yes?"

Glancing at his hand nervously, she mumbled something. She couldn't for the life of her remember the exact words, but Enthir seemed to find them agreeable enough.

"Thank you," he said warmly. "I really do appreciate this." He pulled her into a sudden hug, and she had no idea how to react to it. She awkwardly stood in his embrace, two books against her chest, frozen as he patted her on the back. When he pulled away, he grinned, said he would see her later, and left with a swing in his step. No doubt on the way to his next shady appointment.

She shook her head and returned to her sorting. She glanced up briefly, for she felt as though a pair of eyes had been on her back, but after finding nothing but an empty aisle she resumed her work.

By the afternoon her arms ached from the weight of books and her knees threatened to lock up after standing so long. Although she was used to the routine by now, Urag had decided to mix things up—he liked to keep her on her toes, he liked to say, though she knew it was from his increased frustration that he had yet to be rid of her—and made her take a cart and bring the books aisle to aisle, rearranging the shelves directly. The cart was completely unmagical, of course, for that would be too easy, and was so laden with extra weight the wheels wouldn't move no matter how she pushed or pulled. Left with no other choice, she had to carry the books back and forth from the cart. She felt like a barmaid, the way she kept traipsing to and fro, as though she were carrying heavy platefuls of venison.

It was on her third trip through the Nordic history aisles that she felt again like she was being watched. She looked up from her current shelf—the one that contained mostly the writings of the Nord mage Shalidor—and checked around her, a hand on the shock spellscrolls, her mind quickly noting what spellscrolls she'd brought with her today. Caution was a necessity when by herself in the aisles; more than once a disgruntled apprentice had tried a few spells on her when she was alone.

"Hullo?" she called out. But there was no one there to answer.

She sighed. Perhaps that talk with Enthir was taking its toll.

The next few hours were similar and just as worrying. Whoever was watching her (and she spent quite a while wondering if there even was a who) had a knack for sneaking around. She found no evidence of a person trailing her, at least nothing beyond the prickly feeling that shuddered down her spine. The few researchers she came across were bemused whenever she jerked her head to check behind her. Her only reprieve was Urag: whomever it was seemed to know when she was near him, or if he was looking. Apparently they were afraid of him. Not that she could blame them.

"Will you stop that owling?" growled Urag as she once again glanced over her shoulder. For a faint second she'd thought she felt eyes on her neck as she did her categorizing a desk away from him. "My neck strains just hearing you."

"Sorry," she mumbled, flushing. "I thought someone—" She paused. "Nothing, really."

He narrowed his eyes; they focused right above her forehead. "Tell me."

"Er." She swallowed nervously out of habit and looked down at her papers. "I've just felt—well, it's silly of me, I know, but I feel like, like there's somebody following me around, just staring."

"Really." It wasn't a question. He turned about in his seat until he was facing her direction. His nostrils flared, as if scenting the wind. "How long?"

"Since, uh, since a little after noon."

"And you didn't bother to tell me earlier?" he snapped.

She cringed. "I didn't think you'd believe me, sir."

"Pah!" He turned about, his head cocked to the side. He muttered a series of words she couldn't make out, and then his eyes sheened with magicka. A life-detecting spell, Elasandra guessed, and he swiveled in his seat to get a full circle of the library. Two careful circles, she counted, and he stopped after the start of the third.

"Nothing," he said finally. His face was covered in furrowed wrinkles. "You sure you were watched?"

"Yes, sir."

He gazed at her for a long moment. He locked eyes with hers again, in that curious way of his, and held it. She looked away first.

"You will come to me if there is any trouble," he said. "No bothering the Arch-Mage or Mirabelle about this. This could be a prank, for all we know, so don't go looking for trouble. Understood?"

"Yes, master," she agreed. After all, she was a nobody. What could anyone want from her?

 

* * *

 

As it always seemed to be, trouble came to stay, and the first thing she did was smack head-first right into it.

It came about that one day, just near a week into her apprenticeship, Elasandra realized Urag would never teach her anything magical at all, whether through a deliberate effort on his part, or the distractedness that came with running a whole library by himself. He was not particularly evil; he'd made sure, presumably under orders, to at least not let her die on his watch. But otherwise he was as unconcerned with her progress as he was with anything that wasn't a book—that is to say, not at all. So she'd decided to take matters into her own hands.

She was a resourceful half-blooded thing, as her father had once said. Though she had plenty of her mother's Bosmeri trappings, she had also inherited a mind for paperwork from her Imperial father. One day she'd asked Urag's permission to sign a few slips of paper, it was nothing special, oh no, merely for Mirabelle's convenience (and all but one had been, Elasandra had taken precautions), and blind Urag had cursed and grumbled, but his magical quill had signed a document stating that she was eligible for small twenty minute lessons from Sergius Turrianus, Master Enchanter. Urag needed the stupid brat out of his hair or he wouldn't have any left, as she'd written in his handwriting. (There was some worth, really, in squirreling away bits and pieces of her master's crumpled papers.)

There had been suspicion, there had been narrowed eyes, there had been questions; Master Sergius was also an Imperial, and when his quick eyes scanned the parchment he'd been incredulous. Thankfully, Elasandra had brought Faralda with her, and she was an excellent distraction. Sergius could barely keep his eyes on the signature for want of staring at the loveliest Altmer on College grounds. (There was a lot of worth in being effectively invisible; people often said disgustingly romantic things when they thought no one was around.)

And so, for two glorious days a week, Elasandra had twenty minutes of Sergius's harsh attention to do with what she pleased. Runes, enchanting paper, Daedric scripts, imbuing words with power! She'd never been so happy, so cheerful. Upon sneaking back to the library afterwards, Urag would study her, remarking upon her good moods despite supposedly refurbishing moldy shelves in the back. For three weeks, Urag had been none the wiser. Sergius was not one to occupy the library unless he had very specific need, and Elasandra was always on hand to keep him away.

But then today, Faralda had gone to the Arcaneum, and now Sergius was in the back shelves with her, and they were talking _loudly_ —well, more like Sergius, he was going deaf into his sixties—

"Is that Sergius?" Urag growled. "Shut him up, girl, or I'll have to do it."

She'd never ran faster in her life. She hadn't bothered to look where she was going, she knew the library like the back of her hand, the twisting corners were nearly home to her...

Then Trouble came, and she knocked right into its fancy black robes, which stumbled into Mirabelle, whom had been talking with Trouble about touring the library, and by the end of their line of dominoes Mirabelle was sprawled in a pile of heavy textbooks, ink dripping from her robes, and Trouble turned out to be an Altmer man she'd knocked onto the ground. Elasandra herself was between them, her hood down, her face and loose hair covered in ink, and she imagined she looked similar to a Khajiit with her new inky stripes.

The students at their immediate right, whose study desk they'd ruined, openly goggled at the sight. When she finally looked up, she found Mirabelle giving her a deep look of disgust, an expression mimicked near exactly to her left on the Altmer's face.

"What, exactly, is _this?_ " he spat, his eyes narrowed to barely-there slits.

"Why," said Mirabelle, alternating between glaring at Elasandra and the Altmer, "this is our librarian's apprentice."

 

* * *

 

The Thalmor were, in a word, inhuman.

This was largely because the Thalmor were exclusively made up of non-human races. But when one thought of the Thalmor, they thought Altmer. (Or High-and-Mighty Elves, as her father used to say.)

The original Thalmor had been a political group in their homeland, the Summerset Isles; after the Oblivion Crisis, they'd taken charge of the Isles, renamed it Alinor, and then had gone on to swiftly conquer Elseweyr and Valenwood. So began the rule of the third Aldmeri Dominion, and the gradual decline of the Septim Empire.

Elasandra had never met a member of the Thalmor before. Her mother and father had, of course, during the Great War. Dozens of war veterans like her parents had settled down in Morthal in search of a quiet place. A good percentage of the town had seen the horrors of the war, and Elasandra could never forget their haunted eyes, or the way they gazed out into the mist of the swamps with an eerie longing. Sometimes her parents had the same look on their faces, and those were the worst of times, for everyone knew that Death called to those who'd seen it, beckoning them to its embrace. She'd often wake in the middle of the night from one of her parent's screaming, caught in the throes of nightmarish memory.

But despite this, no one talked about the war—and, by extension, the Thalmor on enemy lines. Mutterings from those suffering flashbacks, yes, and the occasional whispered conversations she'd picked up, hiding underneath tables at the inn, but never any true conversations, no stories to tell, no reminiscing over ale and mead as often happened when discussing other matters.

Between her parents, her mother had known quite a bit about the Thalmor outside combat. But she'd left them, Elasandra and her father; and so her reticent mother's troubled past in Valenwood, her homeland, was a dead end. Elasandra was left only with her suspicions. None of them were pleasant.

On her travels Elasandra learned more than she had in Morthal, though that was true for everything she learned on the road. In Whiterun she encountered her very first Shrine of Talos, the Ninth Divine and God of Men, and met His priest, an elderly Nord who raved on about rightful divinity, the importance of keeping faith, and the ignorance of elves. She'd stayed for an hour and listened to him, feeling a strange mix of amusement, offense, and bewilderment, for no one in Morthal had held this amount of passion and obvious dedication. Luckily he didn't think much of her, mistaking her for human; her face was mostly Mannish, her sclera white and her irises small, her face rounded and far less sharp than an elf's. Whenever she wore a hood, covering both her hair and pointed ears, she could wander through Nordic lands unhindered. (Of course the same trick never quite worked on elves, who were far less flexible in appearance.)

The Thalmor were, in the priest's opinion, the sharp fangs of the snake that made up the elven menace. They were intent on causing the world's end (and here Elasandra had sat down on a bench, paying close attention, and the priest had puffed up with self-importance) by slithering around the neck of believers, snuffing out faith using fear, aided by the traitor known as Titus Mede, also called Emperor. Though they wore the skin of mortals the Thalmor thought themselves of a higher existence; and such high-mindedness was treason against the Mortal's God, and the God of Man, and the Divines would punish these blasphemies with Kyne's Blessing, the Reborn Ysmir Himself!

It had all been very fascinating (especially when she asked questions and his voice grew louder to compensate for his vigor), but it was mostly a plethora of euphemism and metaphorical language, so much so she wondered if perhaps the Thalmor were actually atronachs, or some other form of daedra. Without quite knowing it, she'd kept that mental illustration as her definitive picture of the Thalmor as a whole: as inhuman beings, made of corruption and evil, like the villains of the legends she'd heard as a child.

But here now she realized how much of a fool she'd been. This Thalmor, who glared viciously at her as she sank into the floor, was merely another Altmer: long-limbed and gold-skinned, with amber eyes and white-blond hair, and the hereditary sharp elven features. His face, perhaps, held an aristocratic sort of straightness, with an angled nose, high brow, and naturally narrow eyes, but otherwise he seemed perfectly normal. She might have even called him handsome if it weren't spoiled by his clenched jaw and contemptuous expression, or the pulsing veins in his taut neck.

It was his uniform, though, that was the most eye-catching. Made of a velvet-like black, it shone under the Arcaneum's lights like water. It was a three-pieced spectacle of gilded sharp edges: there was a large overcoat that made him seem larger than he was, and then an undercoat and travelwear beneath it. His long gloves had leathered knuckles; his boots had jagged edges lengthwise on the shins. At the nape of his neck drooped a hood, and she got the impression that he never needed, or wanted, to cover his face. The only part of him truly exposed was his head—she felt rather unkempt and under-dressed compared to him. The whole thing together was sleek and efficient, more like something a wealthy scribe would wear. It wasn't as frightening as she initially thought a military uniform would appear to be.

"How lovely," he hissed, his thin lips pressed together in anger. His voice held the same disagreeable quality as his face. It was a rather high-pitched tenor and held a distinctly genteel accent.

Realizing that she was indeed staring at him, Elasandra scrambled backwards, desperately trying to stand. She slipped on the ink and fell again, this time at an odd angle that made her ankle throb. An uncomfortable silence took up the whole of the room—an impressive feat, for a room of such size—and when she glanced up she found every person there staring right at her. She flopped feebly in place, the familiar burn of humiliation scorching her cheeks.

It seemed like an eternity before she finally stood, her two victims glaring her down the whole while. She offered her hand to Mirabelle, but she smacked it away and rose under her own power. As if waiting for a signal the nearby group of students whose ink had spilled suddenly jumped out of their seats and sopped up the mess with their handkerchiefs. Belatedly Elasandra noticed the Thalmor on the floor, and she lunged with her hand out, babbling like a madwoman.

"Oh, I'm so, so sorry—I-I—please, let me help, I can't believe what—I'm, I'll find a way to, er, get the stains out, pardon my—"

He grabbed her hand heavily and used the momentum to pull himself to his full height. His eyes locked with hers as he slowly rose, and as she watched him she began to panic—for as he unfurled his limbs he kept growing, and growing, and growing, taller and taller, until he towered over her, eyes burning with disgust. It was then that she finally grasped the whole concept of the uniform: It didn't need to be frightening. The man wearing it was terrifying enough.

"Oh!" she squeaked, her voice jumping up an octave. Her hands were sweaty now. It was a good thing she was wearing gloves, for she had a feeling he wouldn't tolerate her grime on his expensive things. She tried to pull her hand away, but it was no use; his grip was like steel.

"Listen to me well," he said in a quiet voice. She froze, watching as he leaned in closer and eyed her ink-streaked face. The silence let his words carry across the room. The students backed away; Mirabelle simply looked on with a grimace. "You will pay for this mess of yours, apprentice. Let there be no mistake about that."

With that said, he let her go. Her hand fell uselessly to her side. She retreated a few steps back, willing her pulse to stop beating so quickly; but as she made to escape, a hand clamped down on her shoulder, holding her in place. Recognizing the huffy breaths behind her, Elasandra closed her eyes and prayed to Y'ffre. There was no doubt she was going to meet her maker today.

"Girl," growled Urag, the bottom of his broken tusk skimming the top of her head. A familiar piece of paper was shoved in her face, one with Urag's hastily-scribbled handwriting. She felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. "Arch-Mage. Now."

In front of her, Mirabelle and the Thalmor observed this with dark looks of satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

A month into her College career, Elasandra mused, and she was right back where she started. She was sure even the chair was the same, right down to the familiar way it dug uncomfortably into her back.

The office of the Arch-Mage had not changed much: there was still that peek of bright mage-lights from around the backwall, and the same rotting tapestries fluttering in the passing breeze, and the scuffmarks by the desk legs; and the Arch-Mage's eyes even held a familiar spark as he sat back into his chair, stroking the end of his knotted beard.

What had changed this time around was the company. While she sat near the entrance against the wall doing her best imitation of an invisibility spell, Mirabelle and Urag flanked her chair as the Thalmor man paced furiously back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. (Urag had elected to sit in a chair like her, claiming joint pain and sudden onset headache, looking in her direction.) Although all four newcomers were varying levels of solemn, the Arch-Mage himself seemed calm, if not downright amused. A small smile kept cropping up now and then, especially whenever he looked at Elasandra's face. He hid it well, however, whenever the Thalmor glanced his way.

Just as the quiet patter of boots on stone became unbearable, the Arch-Mage turned to Mirabelle and said, "I've no clue as to the pleasure of this visit, but I believe I can guess."

"No need," she grunted. She sounded remarkably like Urag when she was angry. "I can explain from the very beginning."

"No," spat the Thalmor, turning about to face him. "I will be heard _now_."

Next to her, Elasandra heard Mirabelle clench her teeth.

The Arch-Mage looked on at all of this and sighed. He waved a hand at the Thalmor. "Very well, then. Mirabelle, I shall hear you next. And then Urag, should you wish."

That seemed to loosen everyone's nerves but Elasandra's. She sank further into her seat.

Without preamble, the Thalmor began: "This mongrel—" he pointed at Elasandra, and she winced as ink droplets leapt off his sleeve "—is a menace. Have your standards lowered so much, Arch-Mage, that you would allow this clumsy oaf around centuries worth of precious materials? Of all the pathetic displays I've witnessed in my life, this has been the most infuriating. A true disgrace to your College's name.

"And," he continued, and Elasandra wondered if he'd prepared a list, "this is in tandem with multiple instances of oversight I've discovered—within the first day, mind you! Imbecelic instructors, inferior students allowed to progress, neglectful book-keeping—" Urag tensed "—illegal trading of goods, faulty building structures, and among the worst of it, matriculating a student who blew up a bridge—" Elasandra shifted guiltily in her seat "—I've yet to read a more despairing tragedy than this!"

The Thalmor glanced backwards at Elasandra, accusing her with his eyes, before returning to the Arch-Mage. He didn't quite sneer—he seemed too well-bred for that—but he managed a sort of scowl akin to it. "Must I go on?"

"Indeed not," said the Arch-Mage, his tone grave. Yet Elasandra made out a small half-quirk of the lips that suggested mockery. She wondered if anyone else noticed. "It is your duty to point out these things, my friend. I do appreciate it. May I ask, what would be your suggestions?"

The Thalmor looked him over, eyes narrowed. Then he replied, in a far more controlled voice, "I'm afraid that would step beyond my place."

"No, no, don't fall silent for my sake." The Arch-Mage smiled. "It would be remiss to ignore your input. Is it not your job to advise me? Go on, please. Advise."

The Thalmor swept his hand back and gestured at Elasandra. She shrunk as far as she could, but there was nowhere left to hide. "Then begin by dismissing _this_."

Looking supremely amused, the Arch-Mage leaned forward in his seat and eyed the Thalmor and then Elasandra, back and forth, back and forth, until she felt less like crying and more irritated, for she had a feeling she was missing an inside joke that she'd somehow become a part of. Glancing around she saw the same baffled expressions on everyone else, though Urag seemed more confused by the silence, and the Thalmor was growing increasingly flustered.

"And what is so amusing?" he ground out. He looked on the Arch-Mage with suspicion.

"Nothing at all," said the Arch-Mage, his smile widening. "I just simply cannot accede to your request."

" _What?_ " Elasandra and the Thalmor spoke at once.

"My answer is no."

"Savos—" began Mirabelle, stepping forward.

"I'm afraid I will not be swayed on this decision." He looked at her pointedly. "Not by anyone."

"Please, Savos, hear me," said Mirabelle, a frustrated note creeping in. The Thalmor made to interrupt, but the Arch-Mage held up a hand for silence. "I don't know why you've become so—so enarmored with this particular student, but I feel I should remind you of...past incidents."

Next to her Urag crossed his arms and let out a little _hmmm_ ing noise. With a dramatic whirl on his feet, the Thalmor turned around and glared at Elasandra straight-on.

"Past incidents?" he hissed, his rage annunciated in every syllable. "What does that precisely mean?"

Elasandra studied an interesting speck on the floor. When she proved useless, he glared at Mirabelle.

Mirabelle glared right back, her spine stiff and tall. "I believe that is none of your concern."

"I am the advisor to the Arch-Mage!" he exclaimed indignantly.

"And I am his second, and you'd do well to remember that."

"It is my duty to the College to correct past mistakes—"

"Whom we've chosen to enroll is our decision," she said sharply, "advisor to the Arch-Mage or no." She visibly struggled for a moment before adding, "No one here can dismiss her bar Savos himself."

Elasandra gaped. It suddenly occurred to her that, although the woman despised her, it was clear enough Mirabelle had grown to dislike the Thalmor more in their few hours together than she had Elasandra in a month. And perhaps she hated being told what to do—not even the haughtiest of the researchers had ever dared try. It was as comforting as it was bizarre, to think of Mirabelle Ervine as an ally.

The Thalmor's expression turned darker, his posture snapping to high attention. "Excuse me?"

Urag barked out a short, harsh laugh, but he said nothing. That seemed to rile the two of them even further, and they simultaneously took a step towards the other. Elasandra felt a chilling wash of static creep down her spine. She desperately searched for an escape route, as there was no telling what would happen, and two explosions were her limit, thank you very much.

"I believe I said—"

"Please, please," said the Arch-Mage, standing from his seat. He looked over the four of them, from the Thalmor's darkening temper and Mirabelle's crackling fingertips, to Elasandra's wide-eyed surprise and Urag's black cheer. He sighed a long low sigh, and then he waved a hand at Mirabelle and the Thalmor. "Please, calm yourselves. Tempers are high, yes, but desist."

The pair reluctantly stood down, their hands carefully at their sides. Elasandra let out the breath she held. Urag seemed put out.

"Now, as I can't trust the two of you in the same room," said the Arch-Mage with a little too much false humor, "I will ask our advisor to step outside. I will send for Faralda, our current Master of Destruction. I'm sure you two will get on swimmingly. She'll help you get situated in your rooms. If you'd please."

It took a moment for the pair to collect themselves. They gave each other one last parting glare, both their eyes full of warning.

The Thalmor clasped his hands behind his back. "Of course," he said in a pleasant tone, but his face belied the same tension as before. He left without addressing anyone else, though he paused by the door and said, flicking his eyes to Elasandra, "We will discuss this matter further."

"No doubt we will," replied the Arch-Mage in the same tone. "Welcome to the College."

Once the Thalmor was far from sight and sound, both Urag and Mirabelle lost a little of their stiffness. Elasandra herself felt as though a leaden weight had left her back, but she knew without question there was still time for everything to fall apart. A contemplative silence fell over the room. She didn't dare speak first.

It was surprisingly Urag who broke it. "A Thalmor, Savos? Really?" He snorted. "Next you'll bring on a troll as a maid."

The Arch-Mage sighed. "Behave yourself."

"Not me you have to worry about," said Urag wryly, settling back in his chair.

Mirabelle did not respond to his bait. Instead she looked at the Arch-Mage with a calculating eye, lips pursed. Her eyes drifted to Elasandra and then to where the Thalmor had left.

"Clever," she said at last. She crossed her arms. "Very clever, Savos."

He smiled. "I have no clue as to what you mean."

"Of course you don't," she said, pressing a hand to her forehead. Again she eyed Elasandra through her fingers, and Elasandra tried rather hard not to squirm under her gaze. "You've used my own objections against me."

"Then I suppose you have nothing more to say on the issue," he said. He sat down heavily at his desk. He peered up at her under his shawl, a sly look on his face. "And you won't continue to hound me daily about my administrative decisions."

She scoffed. "After inviting the Dominion with open arms? Never." In a far more professional voice she added, "But I won't speak of our first issue again unless—" she gave Elasandra a pointed look "—she gives me reason to."

Before Elasandra could brighten at this news, Urag ruined it by producing that damnable piece of paper from his pocket. He waved it almost gleefully in the air, and she thought it wouldn't be out of place if he went and kissed it, the way he caressed it so.

"No such luck," he said smugly. It was the happiest she'd ever heard from him. He handed the paper to Mirabelle, who read it with mild confusion.

"You authorized these meetings?" she asked, brow furrowed. She handed it to the Arch-Mage's outstretched hand. The guilt crawled up Elasandra's back.

Urag's reply was an incredulous scowl.

The Arch-Mage looked up from his reading and glanced at Elasandra. His eyes roamed over her as she ducked her head.

"Hmm," said the Arch-Mage, and she raised her eyes meekly. "This looks authentic."

"It's not," snapped Urag.

"I'm merely commenting," he said in apology. His long fingers idly traced the words; upon looking closer, she saw tiny sparks of blue magic following his movements. "Ah. My, but I thought it were—hmm. No, this is obviously counterfeit." He looked up and smiled at her. "But a very good counterfeit, I must admit."

"Er, thank you?"

"I do hope you won't tell of your abilities to young Enthir," he said. Mirabelle radiated disapproval from her place at the desk. "I fear we'd have a budding criminal enterprise otherwise."

She mutedly shook her head, wondering if the world had gone mad. Or maybe it was her that was crazy. Nothing was making too much sense, really; but at any rate, all that mattered was that she'd emerged the victor after entering a ring with three opponents.

Urag did not look as happy with this as she was. His face was mutinous.

"You're fine with this?" he cried indignantly. "The apprentice you've sent me is—"

"—is taking lessons to supplement her apprenticeship," finished the Arch-Mage. He shook his head. "Can I fault a student for studying?"

"Yes, you can! You've the evidence in your miserable, wretched, grey-skinned hands!"

If the Arch-Mage was insulted by this, he seemed unfazed, perhaps even the opposite: His smile was a little too bright. Urag couldn't see this, but Elasandra could tell by the way he huffed that he, too, had felt the change in the air.

"My dear librarian—"

"Don't you call me—"

"My friend, I sympathize with your situation—"

" _You_ put me in this situation in the first place!"

"I did." The Arch-Mage was as placid as ever. Elasandra wondered if he were ever unsettled. "But I did it for good reason. Have you never thought I did this for your benefit?"

"Benefit? By Malacath, my benefit!" He made a foreign hand gesture that nevertheless looked filthy to Elasandra's untrained eye. "You're sticking me with this little thorn for your entertainment!"

"Not in the least," he said. His eyes spoke the opposite. "Though I admit I've found the spectacle a tad—"

With a pained grunt Urag rose out of his seat much too quickly. Waving off Mirabelle's concern, he limped to the Arch-Mage's desk and smacked his hand against it. His fingers danced along the surface, his hand a spasmodic spider, before he snatched up the paper and ripped it in half.

"There," he spat, crumpling it up into a ball. Elasandra had never seen him treat any sort of paper so roughly. He threw it against the wall, where it plopped onto the ground and wilted. "Fine. You wish to have your fun?" He broke out into a sinister grin that did not help Elasandra's nerves. "You haven't seen anything yet. You'll rue the day, Savos. _Rue_ it."

He lurched out of the room without another word. His irregular footsteps pit-patted down the steps, an uneven echo that bounced off the stone.

"Ah," said the Arch-Mage, sighing. "It seems today is a poor showing for my office. Mirabelle, if you would...?"

"Clear up your messes?" she suggested. She patted the hand on his desk with long-suffering affection. "Once again."

"If you don't mind," he said, smiling at her. The warmth of the moment passed soon enough, and she left, though in a far calmer state than her fellows.

Realizing it was just the two of them now, alone and without anyone else, Elasandra jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair in the process. She glanced around nervously before giving the Arch-Mage a shallow bow; after all, the man had defended her from three of his own. She felt as if she were pressing her luck, standing here around him when he could easily change his mind and take it all back—it was the sort of nonsensical thought that comes from dizzy relief—and she desperately wanted to thank him and run off. But he had other ideas.

"Elasandra, please," he said just as she made to talk, "come sit with me." His eyes held hers, and she could read in them that there was no refusing him. "We simply must have a chat."

 

* * *

 

"Oh, er," she said, her mind digging frantically for excuses, "the chair—"

He did something with his fingers, a series of agonizing maneuvers, and the chair flew up from its place and landed with a dull thunk in front of his desk. She stared in awe.

"Telekinesis," he supplied. The smile he wore now was quite different compared to the one he wore before: the other was sealed and mysterious, the sort of enigmatic expression she pictured mages using when they thought they were being clever; this one was lopsided and toothy, and caused his mouth and eyes to crinkle at the corners. It was a genuine smile, she thought, feeling the urge to smile back. It made him look decades younger.

"Please, sit down," he said again, and this time she did so with barely any nerves at all. "I think we're through with interrogating you for the day, yes?"

The amicability in his voice set her at ease—though that worrying part wondered why he was so nice to her, they'd barely had one conversation before this. Trying her best at good manners (wouldn't that Thalmor be surprised), she sat up straight with as much dignity as she could. But then she remembered the ink all over her and decided, well, a good impression was far, far away. She slouched and played anxiously with her sleeve.

"Ah, forgive me," said the Arch-Mage. His smile turned apologetic. "I'd nearly forgot, what with the...drama, I should say. Here, please, let me."

His finger did another strange dance, this one sharper and somehow flashier—was the air glittering?—and finished with a sweep of his hand in a downward motion, aimed at her. She braced herself, but nothing connected. At first she felt nothing, until a tingle swept along her skin in a tide, and an ethereal hand traced the blotches on her face, and when she opened her eyes she found the black ink that had been laying in her peripheral vision the whole hour had disappeared. She brought her hands up to inspect and saw they too were clean, as if she'd never fallen into the ink in the first place.

"Dear Mara," she breathed. At her words that one stubborn piece of hair bobbed in the air, free from the ink that glued it to her cheek. She glared cross-eyed at it.

The Arch-Mage laughed. "Impressed?" he asked, his voice teasing.

"Er, yes," she said. Her clothes were stain-free. She looked at him helplessly, unable to form the right words. "That was—was—"

"A mix of Restoration spells," he said, "with a few Alteration spells to keep the form. It's a useful little cleaning spell I came across in my studies. Good for when you fall asleep at your desk."

"That happens to you?" she asked, surprised. She couldn't quite picture it.

"Many, many times." He laid his chin atop his clasped hands. "The price of knowledge," he sighed wistfully.

"That sounds—uh." She stopped herself from saying something stupid like, _That sounds like what I do!_ She didn't think he would appreciate the comparison. "Sounds fun," she finished lamely.

"It was," he agreed. His eyes gleamed with laughter, and she wondered if he knew what she'd been about to say. "It still is. But look at me," he added, waving a dismissive hand at himself, "showing off like this. Please, tell me of your apprenticeship so far."

She glanced everywhere but his face. "It's...fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yes! Just fine." She nodded her head vigorously. "It's been very nice."

"Truly?"

"Definitely," she said a little too hastily. It was hard to make eye contact when you could barely raise your eyes. "I've learned a lot."

"Of course you have," he said. How he managed to make those words sound so flattering was a mystery to her. "I've no doubts about your talent, my dear. I am curious, however, as to what Urag brought. You've been working with Sergius in your spare time?"

This subject was far safer. "Oh! Yes, I've, uh. Well. You see..." She struggled with an explanation before throwing caution to the wind and pulling off her gloves. Inside of them were the little paper runes she'd been working on for two weeks. Sergius had scoffed at their intended use, but she could say now she was proud they were on hand.

The Arch-Mage observed with obvious interest as she held them up into the light. The arcanic symbols and calligraphy shimmered, the ink running through a spectrum of colors before settling on a shiny black. Three imperfect circles arched the length of a larger one; a set of characters ran around this larger circle, glowing faintly with intention. She gave the runes another once-over before handing them to him. He examined them carefully.

"Hmm." His fingers hovered over the designs. "Interesting choice, interesting choice," he murmured. When he looked up at her, he smiled again. "These symbols are unfamiliar to me."

"Oh." She felt a little disappointed by that.

"Despite my title," he said dryly, "I am always learning. The beauty of running an academic institution."

"Right, I didn't mean..." She trailed off, ears burning. "Sorry—uh." She fumbled for words for a few minutes. An idea struck her then, and she pulled the runes closer. "Here—" she pointed at the largest circle "—I just had this idea of, er, just of the _world_. You see, everything's a circle, but it's perfect and imperfect, so I made that first and added these—" she gestured at the characters surrounding it "—and thought, well, spellscrolls and daedric script, that's normal, sometimes there're substitutions made, but it's usually Daedric, but what if you put in the, uh, magical script equivalent that's in the spellbooks?

"So I asked Master Turrianus," she continued, flushing as she realized of both her rambling and the Arch-Mage's intent eyes, "and he said that it wasn't done that often, but it was possible, but that nobody really could translate the script into Tamrielic, it's all translated within your head magically, and there's no one with much guess to the meaning of the symbols, and I thought that if that were the case why not just see what happens, so I decided to just, uh." She paused. "Er, I just sort of...made it up?"

There was another pause as the two of them took in the full meaning of her words.

"You made up new symbols for your runes?" he asked, his face devoid of anything but an overwhelming calm.

"I mean, uh." She stared at a point above his left shoulder. "Possibly? I based them off the ones everyone knows."

He hummed but made no other comments. "Continue," he said.

"So, um, I think you know about my—my problem, with magicka?" She nearly slapped herself for that. Everyone in the College knew about her pathetic magicka reserves; it was the reason they were out a bridge and had to be magicked across. When he nodded, she plowed on: "I don't have the same protection against the cold everyone else has, and I tried to make up for it with lots of clothes, but that doesn't help against the Sea of Ghosts. So. I just wanted something small, you see, for my hands and ears and feet, so they don't ice over when I'm outside, and I thought, I don't need much power in this, so it won't turn out the disaster from last time—" She bit her tongue.

"You invented essentially a magical cover," he finished for her, his fingers hovering over two particular symbols. "I see. Now I truly _do_ see. Alteration runes, but far less powerful, and intended to sustain. A flame cloak."

"Yes, sir," she said, relieved. She pointed out another symbol. "I kept ruining them here, from the Destruction school. I used the usual symbol, you see—" and she drew on her palm the swirled hand symbol that represented Destruction "—but I couldn't keep it from burning up too fast, so I had to alter it a bit."

"Remarkable," he muttered, eyeing the runes. "And do they work?"

"I just got them to," she said, sitting up straighter. She couldn't help adding in a proud voice, "I've been wearing them for two days now. It's nice."

"Have you shown them to anyone else?"

She deflated. "Oh. No, actually. I didn't want anyone to know, just in case."

"Just in case they relayed this to your master," he said with a knowing smile. "Perhaps it's for the best. This has been a wonderful lesson. I hope you will continue on with these runes of yours." He rapped the desk with his knuckles and his demeanor changed to something remorseful. "But I'm afraid I've an ulterior motive for this meeting."

"You do?" she asked cautiously.

"Not to say I'm not interested in your progress," he said. "Far from it. But the circumstances being as they are, I'm in need of some help." As easily as that he shifted from the impressed pupil into the shrewd businessman. He laid his chin on his clasped hands, his mouth pulled down into a frown, his eyes calculating. "I've recently been in correspondence with the Thalmor Emissary; or, should I say, the Emissary has sent me quite a number of letters regarding her interest in our College."

"Right," she said, feeling out of her depth.

"You must wonder why I'm telling you this," said the Arch-Mage wryly. She winced. "It's a valid concern. I'm not in the habit of confiding in apprentices. Now, as I said, the Thalmor's sudden interest. Their Emissary demanded I install one of her own in a position—and I suppose you know the rest. We've now our very own Thalmor advisor."

She couldn't help blurting out, "But _why?_ "

He smiled in an enigmatic way. "Why not? I suppose I was curious, in truth. And do you not think it a wonder to speak with a mage trained in a land steeped in ancient magic and tradition? I thought it a boon for our students, to have such a resource on hand. Alinor hasn't been open to visitors for a very long time."

"But he's—" She made a vague gesture along the room. "He's probably here to spy! And to find heretics and things!"

Though he frowned, his eyes danced. "Oh, no doubt. The Emissary said as much, if one cared to look."

She stared at him incredulously.

"Let us get to the point, then." He leaned forward. "I need for you to spy on our spy."

Her jaw dropped. "I-I—wait, what are—"

"As Urag's apprentice," he went on, unconcerned, "you've access to a great deal of information, whether you realize it or not. Your runes and forgery display a certain resourcefulness; your—for lack of a better word— _projects_ with young Enthir show stealth; your time with Urag reveals a patience necessary for whom I need you to interact with. That he's become aware of you ahead of schedule can be considered a blessing. No one suspects the obvious."

"But I'm—"

"The perfect candidate," he said. He pinned her to her seat with his eyes. "Consider this another way to repay your debt, my dear. It would be a service to the College—and to me," he added in a lower, more personal voice. "I'd very much appreciate it."

Oh, but she hated it when Enthir used that same look, the look that said she was his only hope and joy in the world. It was ten times worse when the Arch-Mage did it.

"I—I guess I could keep an eye out," she muttered. She was like a drum: easily played and easily beaten.

He beamed at her. "Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful." He stood up, walked around his desk, and took her hand in his. "Thank you, my dear girl. You've no idea what this means to me."

Those last words sent a shiver down her spine. She didn't know why.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://bee-yoo-tiful.tumblr.com/)


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